


Moriarty's Revenge

by TiaWattpader



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 3rd pov sherlock and john, Blood and Injury, Case Fic, Did I mention angst, Eventual Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Gay, Healing, I will add more tags because they are fun, Late to the Fandom, M/M, Moriarty is a psychopath, Rape/Non-con Elements, alternating povs, basically - not the normal way to heal from rape, my first johnlock fic, this is really graphic, unorthodox rape recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:14:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26095441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiaWattpader/pseuds/TiaWattpader
Summary: John gets kidnapped by Moriarty, he is immediately aware that there will be only one outcome to this meeting. He can only hope that Sherlock will understand afterward.This will be my first try to write here on AO3, I know I'm late for this fandom, but well, I joined it late so XD.any similarities to other works are purely by accident, I do not mean to copy off anyone's work. I may have been influenced by the dozens of amazing fanfictions out there, but this in no way was an attempt to copy them. If I have content that seems to mirror another Author's work too much please let me know so I can reach out to the author.
Relationships: Johnlock, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 40
Kudos: 101





	1. The Room

#  Chapter 1

John opened his eyes in a hazy state. His brain was swarmed instantly with over-active nerves, every fibre of his being told him he was in pain and that moving would make it all so much worse. The last time John remembered being in this much pain was after his bullet wound in Afghanistan.

This was in some ways worse as he had no idea why he was in so much pain. It took a while before he trusted himself to open his eyes, then he allowed himself to observe and make his own modest deduction as to where on earth he was.

Noted; he is seated on a chair, plush, feels rather rich. His position is center in the room which serves as his holding cell. It was dark and lit only with the warm light of a few desk lamps. There were chains and cuffs on the walls, whips, and other devices that were a cross of torture and sexual play. Now his mind began to connect dots and he shifted upright. His hands were cuffed and somehow attached to the chair legs, a quick glance at the woodworking explained that he was unable to slip out of them. 

So, he had been kidnapped, and now restrained, unsupervised in a room full of potential weapons. John strained to remember how he got into this mess but he found that the effort was not worth it, right now, he needed to assess what was going to happen. 

The fact did not escape him that this could very well be a rape-homicide and he was the victim, however, that did not warrant his attention at the moment. He was alone, this meant three things, he was being watched via camera footage, or his captors were confident enough to leave him or, and this would be bad; they feared getting caught and fled the scene. This would leave him to starve to death unless some nitwit realized he was gone.

Sherlock, right, he would have noticed John’s absence by now, good. What had happened? What got him in here? His mind was scrabbling for the right memories, trying to separate what was real and what he was unconsciously trying to think up. He heard a few steps from behind him and realized with a start that the only door to the room was placed right out of his peripheral. Brilliant, his captors knew about his military history then and were using his hyper-vigilance to their advantage.

The door opened and there was a faint sound of music being played, he couldn’t place the melody and it stopped anyways.

“All settled down comfortably Johny boy?” The voice was terribly familiar and John barely braced himself in time to see Moriarty peek at him from around his chair. He still could not suppress the shiver of fear at seeing the man himself. After the incident at the pool, John found to associate the man’s face with the sickening feeling of impending chaos.

Moriarty swung himself right in front of John, his suit was silver and impeccable as usual, he was absently toying with a gun in his hand. He smiled in delight and tilted his head to John, “Ohhh, someone looks like they had a good sleep! I wonder, is this what you meant when you told Sherlock that you needed a vacation?” 

The mastermind swaggered forward a few steps and opened his mouth to drop his tongue out. Seemingly out of nowhere, a woman in a sharp suit walked to him and plopped a gum onto his wet tongue. He had not broken eye-contact once with John and closed his mouth with a smile as John looked away. The gun had disappeared onto the table in the process.

Now John remembered, the idea of taking a small vacation had occurred to him on a spur of the moment, and he made plans for a getaway that weekend with a lady he had met at Tesco. He had taken a cab to the train station but somehow in between the time, it took for him to get out of the cabbie and walk to the station he was ambushed.  _ Fuck. _ Sherlock wouldn’t even know he was gone.

Moriarty smiled wider while watching him, appearing to read his mind through his face. Then he advanced a little closer, at this point his face was mere inches away from John’s face. The sharp, musky scent of cologne overwhelmed him and invigorated his senses, perhaps something Moriarty did on purpose. “I’m so so, incredibly sorry you won't be able to spend the weekend with that lovely lady you wanted. But don’t worry — “ His pause was menacing as he chewed slowly, then his hand cupped John’s chin and pulled his face upwards, “I’ll keep you plenty of company until our lovely Sherlock makes his appearance, and what’s more…” 

He bent over to John’s ear and whispered it now, “I’ll even let you have some delicious sex… it will be better than any you’ve ever had… Tell me, John,” He stood up again and undid his tie, “Have you ever gotten fucked silly? Have you ever found yourself at the control of a genius? Not to toot my own horn of course” Moriarty feigned squeezing some horn and let out a delighted laugh.

“Fuck off ” John spat in mild horror. Right now all he could think of was  _ Fuck. he’s actually planning to… oh shit.. Oh, fucking shit hell no! Oh god, Sherlock please get your ass over here! I’m going to be fucking… Fucked! _

“No need to look so eager Johnny, I won’t do it because I like to,” Moriarty scoffed and stretched out his arms in a ‘T’ pose, “but I do so love ruining what Sherlock loves,” two men in dark suits and darker glasses came and removed Moriarty’s blazer, leaving him in a crisp, pressed white shirt, “You seemed like the best thing to ruin by far, and what a better way to do so than in the way Sherlock would have loved to do himself!” He folded his arms and concentrated on unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves, taking his time to roll them upwards.

John tried to ignore the fear coiled in his belly, this was so different than Afganistan, at least there he had control, he could move, run, hell at least he had a fucking gun. Here he was bound, he was trapped and what was worse, he knew that there was no use to fight. If he attempted to resist during the rape, which was inevitable, it would only risk internal damage. His mind unhelpfully supplied him with the dozens of cases of rape-deaths and numerous infections that would result from a forced raping. He was thoroughly fucked.

“So quiet?” Moriarty had finished with his cuffs and was gazing at John with a sad smile, of course, it was one of his faked faces and it quickly slipped into a malicious grin. “Don’t worry, I’ll have you making a racket soon enough my dear boy.”

Moriarty then took a small whip ( a cat-o-nine tails John’s mind provided) it was black and leather-bound. “How do you feel about some foreplay John?” His tone was innocent enough to be asking about breakfast, it was repulsive. John pursed his lips and refused to look at the madman, choosing a point on the wall to focus on.

His efforts were without benefit as he felt the sharp sting on his face bringing his awareness to the pain and shock. He grit his teeth as the pain abated, locking his jaw against the breath of pain that wanted to make itself heard. 

“Oh Johny,” Moriarty tsk-tsked in mock regret, “We can’t have you biting down on your tongue, I want to hear coherent sentences when I fuck the shit out of you,” He laughed in delight and unbuckled his belt.

The black leather slipped slowly and smoothly from the loops, the faint clink of the buckle sent shivers down John’s spine, his body knew what that sound meant, even if it never happened before. Moriarty stared at him with a darkened expression, one of his more unreadable ones, there was no mask on, just … observation. He held out the belt and another suited man came from behind John to take it.

Within moments he felt the hot leather being forced in his mouth, the smell was terribly strong; cologne and musk and that heady leather scent. 

The lights flickered suddenly and Moriarty’s blank canvas face was painted with a small smirk, “We are going to have a lot of fun here Johny boy, I hope you are as excited as I am,” The whip came back down swiftly and for the next hour John only felt pain.

  
  



	2. The Count Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shifting to Sherlock's POV and we can see just how prepared Moriarty was.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, his knees pulled up and his face twisted in a deep scowl. He hated it when John left, there was a solace and comfort that Sherlock took when John was in the flat with him, a presence he could count on and enjoy. Of course, it was only when that presence was gone that he felt just how much John meant to him.

  
Pity. Sherlock knew that it was not sentiment, it was simply routine, he woke up and expected the sun to be in the sky, just as he expected tea to appear on the table and a cold slice of toast, it was simply that. Now there was a change to the equilibrium and much like a chemical reaction, he felt himself shifting to accommodate the change, struggling to achieve some sort of balance. He woke up earlier when the sun was not up, and began his experiments without looking for tea on the table.

  
It made sense, of course, John had felt the need to take a break after the pool incident with Moriarty, he had all the right to. That is what Sherlock told himself, though a petty part of him was upset that John didn’t just get over it, he was still alive after all, why did his sudden brush with death mean he had to elope with some female to mate for a few days.

  
Sherlock reasoned it dealt with emotions and as that was not his forte he let it be, focusing instead on procuring a chemical reactant to human skin particles.  
It was going smoothly for a few hours when he heard the front door open. The fact that he heard the door was already a bad sign, he was normally able to ignore his surroundings when delved deep in an experiment. What was worse is that he couldn’t help the small flare of hope that it was John, despite knowing it was his brother Mycroft coming in for a visit.

  
“To what do I owe the pleasure of her grace?” Sherlock asked without looking away from the bunsen burner. The door closed and his brother made his way to the kitchen, “A good afternoon to you too, brother mine,” Mycroft replied, ever ignorant to his little brother’s rudeness.  
“I happen to be busy, so unless you have a case that is an 8 at least, do us all a favor and find the exit,” Sherlock waved his hand indifferently to the door.  
“I do in fact have a case, one I am certain will capture your immediate interest,” Mycroft’s voice was a tad bit impatient which was unusual for their ritual bickering. Sherlock lifted his gaze from the flames to finally observe his brother in detail.

  
The first thing he noticed was the lack of an umbrella; Mycroft was in a rush, this was not an ordinary case, “Where is he?”

  
“Kidnapped I’m afraid,” was Mycroft’s prepared reply, his shoulders receding slightly, obviously he was relieved that Sherlock caught on quick enough, “CCTV footage captured him entering the cab at eight forty-five this morning and takes the normal route to the train station, at nine-fifteen the car pulls into a corner street out of surveillance and reappears five minutes later to continue going to the station. This occurred five more times in other spots along the way to the station.” Mycroft had pulled out his phone and displayed a short video to his brother who had already walked up to see it.

  
“The cab pulled to park in front of the station at nine twenty-seven and this man walks out, this is obviously not John Watson.”

  
It was obvious to Sherlock, there was too much emphasis on the left leg, almost as if the actor thought John still suffered from his psychosomatic limp. It was even more obvious from the hair that was a shade too long for John’s military look, and from the hands that did not have the same distinctive shape as the doctor’s.  
Sherlock grabbed his coat, “Where was the first stop? I will need Lestrade phoned immediately for back up, this could be Moriarty’s doing,”  
“Far ahead of you brother mine, Scotland Yard is monitoring the six spots as we speak. Gregory is waiting for you below.”

  
Sherlock took a brief second to thank his brother in his mind, something he wouldn’t dare consider doing out loud and rushed down the stairs.  
Greg was in the police car, clearly waiting for Sherlock, at seeing the tall figure of the detective the door was unlocked swiftly, “Bloody hell, I can’t believe that John got all in trouble this time without you!” Greg pushed his foot to the pedal and they were on their way sirens ablaze.

  
“Please tell me you ordered the imbeciles not to touch any of the evidence,” Sherlock growled in response. The car swerved left as Greg gave a short scoff, “And risk being at risk to one of your experiments, I think not. Don’t worry, I told the boys hands-off until you get to the scene, not sure what you can even make of it, no witness, no evidence nada.”

  
“Please don’t mock me Geroff, it’s unbecoming even of your meager intelligence.” The car stopped under a short bridge, the tight corner obscuring the last camera’s view.

  
The moment Sherlock walked out he began to see the pieces.There was a functional camera placed at an optimal angle right at the corner of the bridge, it would have captured all that had happened had it not been for the fact that it was off. The camera had a few scuff marks from the poor handling but was otherwise fine. “Read the security tape from yesterday on that camera, chances are John’s kidnappers knew where he was going, this was pre-planned, the cabbie was in on it.”

Sherlock then turned his focus to the underpass itself, immediately he knew that his homeless network would have visited this site often, it offered shelter and was faced away from London’s winds. He made a note to ask them later to keep his eyes peeled out for John. His gaze turned to the graffitied walls and then to the skid-marked pavement, it was all old, too old. “We need to go to the next scene now, there is nothing here, nothing happened here,” He turned on his heel and slid into Greg’s cop car without another word. The police on stand-by traded glances but said nothing as Lestrade started up the car and began to drive.

  
Sherlock was not being idle, while in the car he had his laptop pulled open, he began to watch all the security tapes watching the clips before the car entered the blind spot, and then the clips immediately preceding that. Each time he studied the faint shadow that was John’s form in the back of the cabbie.  
Then the shift was noticed, there, after the third blind spot, the figure was just a hair’s distance from where he should have been. It was so quick, so clever, it was almost unnoticed. The body was the same, but it wasn’t John.

  
“We need to skip to the third blind spot, now,” Sherlock ordered just as Greg was going to slow down to the next spot, “Right, you got something?” The DI sounded nervous, and Sherlock then realized that this case was a little personal compared to others.

  
“Yes. It looks like that is where John and the double were switched, now to wonder if they had a double of clothing or if they simply stole John’s clothes —”  
Sherlock got a queasy feeling then, his stomach clenching uncomfortably at the thought of strange, offensive hands man-handling John out of his jumpers. He brushed it off and tried to calculate what outcome was more likely, “It was a duplicate of clothing then,” Sherlock reasoned, it would make more sense, “John was going to vacation with a woman, Jean… Janine? Whatever, find her she’s with the ploy as well.” His mind was now working at full speed, why was John kidnapped, was this Moriarty’s way of telling him he was not safe in Baker Street? Was this some elaborate revenge scheme as pay-back for the pool failure? He could not find the motive yet, all Sherlock knew for certain was that John was in danger and that it was tied back to him.

  
Rewatching the footage as they neared the spot, Sherlock tried to watch the cars, it was a busy street at the time. He saw the cab drive into that blind spot, followed by four other cars, another cab, and a small truck. The cars all came out the other side rather quickly, first the truck than the other cab, then two cars, then John’s cab, and then the last car.

  
One of those cars had taken John and swapped the blogger with some double, the only catch was which car. Sherlock couldn’t count on the times the cars entered and exited, for all he knew all of the cars could have been in on the scheme and entered and exited the blind spot at specified intervals to confuse him.  
This would normally have thrilled Sherlock, the complexity finally giving him a small chance at using his intellect, but for the first time, he was just frustrated that it wasn’t stupidly easy. This was going to put John in danger, and for some reason, the Work didn’t matter when John wasn’t even around.

  
“Sherlock, for the fifth time, we’re here,” Greg coughed rather loudly, finally alerting Sherlock to the fact that the car had not moved for a minute. Sherlock grumbled something and swept out of the car. He noticed at once that there were no cameras in the vicinity, the next thing he spotted was the park nearby.  
The blind spot was a sharp left turn and there was a large oak that blocked out the curve from the vantage point of the last camera. On either side of the curb, there were benches and trash littered about. Sherlock spied at once what he was looking for, a used syringe, dropped carelessly on the floor. The first mistake.  
“Lestrade, have forensics look at this syringe, see if we can pick up traces of the assailant,” Sherlock bent and with a gloved hand dropped the syringe into a plastic bag. His focus was scattered, observing the scene with strange desperation, part of him was jittery and felt out of balance. He brushed it off impatiently, he did not have time for illness if that was a concern.

  
There had to be some sort of sign, some trace of which car carried John away. Sherlock paced, his fingers pressing into his temple, he replayed the scenes he saw on the video feed, watching in his mind’s eye as each car entered and left.

  
The truck was too fast, it was the last one in, and the first one out, of course, it could have been planned… ridiculous. Sherlock knew that it wasn’t the truck, it was too obvious, too easy to follow.

  
The cabbie, the second one, reminded him of the very first case he shared with John. Who could hide in plain sight? Sherlock rushed past the officers and barged into Lestrade’s car, he pulled open the laptop and promptly flipped open his phone to his brother’s number on speed-dial.  
“Mycroft! Pick up, you fat idiot — “ Sherlock grumbled looking up the cab’s license plate from the bad - quality video footage. Finally, he heard Mycroft being transferred over to the line and did not waste time to order his brother, “Mycroft, follow CCTV on the second cabbie at the third blind spot, John’s in that one,”  
“Are you certain? It would be just like Moriarty to repeat himself to lead you off, you must be certain of it Sherlock.” Mycroft sounded tense but there was a frantic sound of typing, and it was clear that his brother already set in motion Sherlock’s request.

  
“We might as well be calling it a bluff or a double bluff for all we know, just follow the damn cab and find out where it went!” Sherlock fumed, slapping the computer shut with the license plate written down on a note of paper.  
“Lestrade, run the plate number, see who the cab works for.”

  
“Private owned Sherlock, we ran the license on all the cars. Other than the truck they are all private-owned vehicles,” Greg supplied without even looking at the note.

If Sherlock was surprised he hid it well, “You appear to have some use in you still. Find the owner, I want to question him.”

“We don’t have a warrant, Sherlock, and we can’t get one based on a guess,” Greg tried.

“I don’t guess —,” Sherlock had half a mind to think that the original owner had not even been driving the cab itself at the time, “drive Lestrade, I already found his address,”

“The things I do for you —" Greg sighed and closed the doors, they were speeding down the road before the other officers even noticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heeey hope ya'll enjoyed the chapter, This is so surreal for me to write here. It's like... wow... weird. but so amazing. Thank you all so much for the kudos! it means so much to me, especially since I can know for sure that 9 people deemed this work worthy of a kudo! ALSO, OMG OMG OMG comments make my heart sing! Like if you want to make me upload faster, all you have to do is comment.


	3. Try Not to Scream Johny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to John's POV. Brace yourself, this will be a rough chapter.

John blacked out hours after the whipping began when he came back around he was alone and the room was dark. His face stung horribly and he tasted blood on his lips. His legs stung as well, but he was just relieved to be alone.

_Fuck. Common Sherlock, where are you, Mori-fucking-arti is not going to wait all day for you. Shit, my head hurts._

It was only then that John felt the peculiar absence of handcuffs on his wrists. He lifted his hands experimentally and confirmed his belief, he was not chained to the chair. Lifting his legs one at a time, he noted that only one was cuffed, the chain leading somewhere into the room.

He bent down to tug on it, it held fast and he huffed. Quickly now, his doctor’s mind analyzed his symptoms: tired, headache, burning sensation on his face, hot, sticky, sore. He tallied them up and concluded that he was dehydrated, lost enough blood to feel its effects, and was on a path to develop an infection with all his open wounds. In short, he was a bit not good.

The Captain persona then took over, his instincts of self-preservation overwhelming him to get out, to escape. John stood up slowly, and turned in a circle, it was dark, but he could make out the shapes in the room, his eyes had adjusted and there was a light source from the doorway. The door would be locked, but even if it wasn’t…

The chain pulled his leg as he attempted to walk towards the door. As expected the cuff prevented him from getting close to the exit. The weapons he had seen earlier were all but removed, not a trace of their existence left.

Then the lights came on, they were warm, but still burned John’s eyes.

“Had a good rest there Johny?” Moriarty waltzed in, followed by three, suited bodyguards. The psychopath leered at him as he walked closer, his eyes were unaffected by the smile on his lips, and somehow that just scared John.

No.

Scared was not right; it unnerved him. “John… John… Such an ordinary name, you know… I thought you would be something special,” Moriarty walked in a circle around John, well within reach but very much protected by the bodyguard training a gun on John. “I was almost certain that Sherlock was above… befriending pets, but I see what he liked in you.”

Moriarty paused and his hands came up to John’s shoulders. The military man stood his ground, refusing to flinch as hands cupped his shoulders, “You are a constant… the only constant in his equation, everything else is a variable. He doesn’t know what will happen, all he knows is that you will be there, the same as you always were.”

Moriarty leaned forward and spoke quietly, his lips tickling John’s ear, “So what if we changed the constant? Eh John? What do you say?” He moved again, stood in front of John, his hands folded neatly behind his back, his eyes blank and his lips drawn in a thin smile.

He waited for a few seconds and then rolled his eyes, “my GOD. I ASKED YOU AN EASY QUESTION!” he pulled out a gun and trained it on John’s head, “So be a gent, answer me; what do you think would happen if we changed the constant?”

John wasn’t sure what Moriarty wanted to hear, “It — It changes the function as a whole… the answer changes,” His voice was calm, collected, a delightful contrast to his panic-riddled mind.

Moriarty glanced at his bodyguards in delight, “See, I told you he would get it eventually, even dogs can be trained,” The gun tilted upwards and clicked,

“Even pets —” he fired a shot at the ceiling, smiling at John’s flinch.

“Can learn —” Another shot.

“To play.” He twirled the gun and threw it to one of the guards, who caught it expertly.

“Now John, I know you are ‘not-gay’ so when I fuck you… no homo,” He smiled in amusement at John’s horrified expression. One of the guards had somehow walked behind John unnoticed and now body-locked him in a vice-like grip. John struggled with growing terror as a simple, white hospital bed was brought in, lowered, and he was forced, face-first, onto it.

“Now whatever you do …” Moriarty’s voice was soft over his left shoulder, “DON’T PANIC!” Moriarty punctuated that with a delighted laugh, his voice coming from everywhere at once.

“Fuck you!” John spat hatefully, fear was making him reckless. This was not good at all, he was tight with dread, every muscle clenched to fight and to attack. His hands were cuffed in front of him, and his ankles were then secured to the bottom bar of the bed. This was really not good.

“John I want to be honest with you,” The sound of his belt buckle being undone was too loud for John’s ears, “I’ve never done this before,” Moriarty never sounded so delighted.

“Don’t fucking touch me —” John was trying to buy time, he needed time, this was not going to end well, he was too tense, this would hurt so badly.

“Oh? That will make this so much harder though…” Moriarty bent forward until his breath tickled John’s cheek, “Pun intended,” he whispered.

Then John felt his pants pulled down. The steady panic in his gut froze over to an ice block and fell to the bottom of his stomach.

This was real now.

He was trapped, he pulled at the chains, pulling at the cuffs so hard until skin ripped and he saw blood. He was fucking trapped in this debilitating position. He struggled and tried to push against the bed frame, “Let me go! Get the fuck away!”

He was truly panicking now, all his training did not prepare him for the feeling of helplessness that he was feeling now. His wrists burned and he realized that he could cut himself badly this way, with a noticeable effort, he stopped moving.

“Ahh much better, now we can get on with stage two!” Moriarty quipped, he sounded ecstatic, and the cold rush of air on John’s exposed rear made him actually want to cry.

He did not cry, he wasn’t much of a crier, at least not at the moment of trauma. This was different, he had no chance of fighting, he couldn’t fight, he was bound, helpless. _Fuck_. Why did he have to go on that stupid vacation, he was an idiot! He shouldn’t have ever left the flat! He should have known something like this would happen! He should have —

All thoughts were swiftly halted in his mind, he heard the terrible sound of a zipper being pulled down... slowly... leisurely.

And then the feeling of hands on his hips.

It was disgusting, horribly wrong, so absolutely wrong, the fingers felt cold and it felt as though the ice was leaching into his skin, making gooseflesh rise all over his back.

“Now let me see… I believe I am meant to place this —" John felt the slap of a hot, pulsing, rod of flesh being smacked onto his crack, “— into this,” he felt a finger trail down to his hole and the shame he felt was such that he was considering knocking himself out.

Fear was rancid in his mouth, dry and bloody. John found himself praying that Moriarty would at least take it slowly, there had to be some sort of progression for this to work right? Why didn’t he study this in school, why hadn’t he ever prepared himself for something like this?

“Johny you are so tight —” Moriarty hummed mockingly, and began to move his hips back and forth, dragging that infernal piece of flesh over John’s rear. The madman let out a laugh, “I believe that was my attempt at foreplay. It’s so tedious when I could simply slick up —”

There was the sudden absence of Moriarty’s flesh on John and he swallowed his fear.

“— And stick it in.”

The moment of penetration was nightmarishly bad; it seared, it burned, it stretched. All John could feel was pain, his vision was limited to blackening edges of a red world. It was so bad he didn’t realize his wrists were bleeding again, but when he did the pain began to multiply.

“Oh… that is rather nice…” Moriarty’s voice carried a hint of surprise, he sounded genuinely pleased by this revelation. He had apparently never thought to consider rape as a crime until now.

John bit back his yelp as the throbbing cock was pulled out of his rear, but he could not contain the scream when it slammed back in.

Again.

Again.

Moriarty was actually silent, lost in the moment and shocked by it, he was not surprised by things, and above all physical stimulus, yet here he was, raping John H. Watson, and really having a wonderful time doing so. “My fucking god, if someone would have told me it felt this good… Perhaps I would have tried this sooner,” He laughed again and his fingers dug into John’s flesh, “Hope you’re having as jolly of a time as I am!”

Suddenly the speed in the thrusts increased, now each pump and pull was like barbed wire to John, he stopped holding back and let out his screams, hoping that would alleviate the pain somewhat. It didn’t, but at least he wasn’t biting his tongue.

“FUCK! Please stop!” John was shocked at the plea that fell unwarranted from his lips, this was not allowed, John does not beg, he does not submit. A hand pushed his face into the mattress and the thrusts got violently hard.

“Oh no, no no no, not when I’m just — ah — starting to feel good!” Moriarty huffed. He did not stop and only continued his restless assault. John was terrified, the pain had invaded his body, every single part of him wanted to blackout, to put a pause to the pain, but either it wasn’t enough for him to blackout, or it was his active fear, he did not fall into the blissful black. A particularly strong thrust sent him in a frenzy of pleading, “Please PLEASE Stop! Please! God, it hurts! Please don’t do this! Please! OH God please!”

Only one thing stopped Moriarty, and it was not John’s begging or the spurts of blood that slicked his way in and out.

It was his release. There was no gasp to signal the orgasm, just the sudden pulsating rhythm from his cock and the spurts of hot liquid into John.

And perhaps it was that which John found most repulsive. Of all the things Moriarty could have done to him, this internal damage was the worst. Not the physical one, though that was bad too, but this feeling of innermost filth. God, he felt humiliated but was in too much pain to focus on that specific emotion.

“Well, that was a surprise. Never had one of those — what do you call them — orgasms, before.” Moriarty chuckled, pulling out a wet wipe from a near desk and cleaning himself off, "Can't say I'm opposed!"

The bloody wipe was thrown carelessly on the floor. “Ah, I seem to require a bit of time to reboot, no matter I’ll have my boys entertain you while I’m away, try not to scream Johny,” Moriarty sang, the man walked away and if it weren’t for the splatters of blood on his trousers it would not have looked as though he had just raped John.

 _Fuck_.

That was John’s last coherent thought before being beat into a senseless mess by the remaining bodyguards.


	4. Not A Game Anymore, Is It?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's pov

Sherlock and Greg arrived at the run-down flat complex within fifteen minutes. It was a tall grey building, it’s near siblings looking better by ten years at least. Sherlock did not wait for the car to stop moving, and jumped out of the vehicle to the angry shout of Lestrade, “SHERLOCK! Just wait a bloody minute!”

His thoughts were running at full speed, this had to provide the evidence he needed. John had been missing a full ten hours and five minutes, this was no longer about solving the case, it was about saving John.

Just by the look of the building, he knew it was uninhabited, or at least not for active lease. The cabbie must have been preparing to move, there was a bank foreclosure sign in the front patio. 

Sherlock opened the door without waiting for Greg to catch up, he noticed scuff marks on the banisters and on the staircase. He noted that one door was a little more battered than the rest on the second landing. First door to the right of the upper staircase then. He opened the door and was surprised that it was unlocked, even a low-class criminal would have the decency to lock up behind his crime.

The scent of rot and infection assaulted his nose and he registered that the corpse had been tossed in the loo. It was too messy, too simple, Moriarty would not have left such a clear trail. His brother was right, the cabbie was a setup, based on the assumption that Sherlock would take from previous cases.

Idiot.

Why was his thought process so slow? Why was it that he felt himself walking a thin line over a deep gorge? His stomach felt empty, but not from lack of food, he felt short of breath despite not running, he felt dizzy and — 

“Sherlock you need to calm down, you look like you’re going to faint, mate,” A steady hand gripped his arm and Sherlock was pulled back to the ground. 

“I’m — I’m fine Gerald, just… This … It was misleading… I’m an idiot,”

“Sherlock, you are panicking, take a deep breath,” Greg ignored the usual butcher of his name in favor of steadying the pale detective. Sherlock found that he had lost sensation in his body, he felt as though he were floating, and falling, at the same time. 

His body was lowered gently to the floor and Lestrade procured a bottle of water from nowhere, “Breath, you’re going to faint if you keep hyperventilating like this!”

He was hyperventilating? How did he miss that detail? And why did his face feel suddenly too hot? A cold and wet wave suddenly washed over his face and he felt as though he had been underwater and only now resurfaced. He gasped deeply, relishing this feeling of awareness and then (quite suddenly) wishing to recede into the darkest pits of Tartarus. Did he really just have a panic attack? So much for the unfeeling, unsentimental detective.

“That was…” Sherlock paused mid-sentence, searching for something coherent enough to say. Lestrade saved him again by pushing the water bottle in his hand, “Save it, we can talk about your panic attack later, we need to find John now.”

Sherlock sipped the water suspiciously, but relishing the effects, did so rapidly. Then it was as though a fog was removed from his brain, clouding his judgment and muddling his observation, it was as though he were not even looking! The scenes came back to him and he wanted to hit himself for being such a fool.

“Let me see the CCTV footage of John leaving the flat again,” Sherlock got up and followed Lestrade back to the cop car. Back up had arrived and now the flat was being searched for a body.

“What? Why you’ve seen it —” Lestrade cut himself off and opened the laptop, Detective and DI looked closely at the footage and then it came to him, “This was not the right day. John was not wearing that outfit today when he left the flat.” How Sherlock would have missed that glaring detail he didn’t know, but Moriarty knew he would have overlooked it. Moriarty knew that Sherlock hated when John left; that he would put himself in his mind-palace to ignore that moment where John leaves. 

If he had paid more attention, focused on his friend more before he left, then this detail would have stood out to him. The rest of the details came easily after that, “John was kidnapped before he entered the cab, or he entered a different cab and was then kidnapped, everything else was planted. There isn’t a body in the flat, it’s a dog… The syringe was planted as evidence! The footage was hacked, I’m an idiot!” The last sentence was punctuated with a slap to his forehead and he rushed his phone out, “Lestrade, drive back to the flat, I’ve overlooked everything!”

The cop pressed his foot on the accelerator and they found themselves headed back to the flat at only barely legal speeds. Sherlock was meanwhile talking with his brother, “No no no! I was an idiot ok!”

“I’m gratified we arrived at the same conclusion brother mine,” The smooth voice replied with a hint of annoyance. Sherlock pointedly ignored his brother’s comments, “It was hacked all the video footage was from today except the first one, Moriarty was pushing me off his trail. Find CCTV —”

“Do you not think, brother dear, that I may have already done so? The trail picks up five minutes east of Baker Street, follow the GPS coordinates I sent you, and please Brother,” there was a pause, “Try not to act irrationally, John could be hurt and thus he will need gentle handling.”

The phone clicked and Sherlock was silent for a while, he stared at the blackberry as though it had personally offended him. His skin turned an unsightly grey and he turned to face the window, “John doesn’t… John wouldn’t get — hurt,” He sounded confused and scared, it was not a tone that he ever thought would come from his voice. It surprised him, but even more so, it scared him. Lestrade did not take his eyes off the road, but his lips pursed tightly as he struggled through the next sentence, “This is Moriarty, Sherlock. He wouldn’t catch John for no reason. Just — take it easy, John will be ok, he’s tougher than he looks.”

Sherlock wanted to believe so, but the older army veteran was embedded in his mind’s eye. Soft, warm, smiling, brave but reckless. The only image coming to mind was one with John in a ridiculously soft jumper, he never realized just how frail his friend looked. Sherlock did not hope; that was a foolish thing to do. So he instead held Lestrade to his word and tried to comfort himself with the idea that John really was stronger than he looked.


	5. How About Round Two?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to John's POV. I think Moriarty made a discovery

Everything hurt; every muscle, every breath, every bone. John couldn’t move without being reminded of how much pain he was in. His eyes were swollen shut and his legs were trembling from holding his weight. He had been moved to the wall; his arms held up by suspended chains and cuffs. His legs were secured with chains to the floor and were painfully tight. 

He felt blood slowly dribble down his thighs every time he unwillingly clenched his muscles. Moriarty’s men had left him a few hours ago, after whipping him raw and sore and beating him with brass knuckles. 

John strained his ears to listen for the hopeful sound of a rescue, but the more time slipped by, the more despondent he began to feel. It should only be a matter of time before the rescue came, he had to convince himself of that fact, or else he might have given up hope.

As he came to full consciousness he became uncomfortably aware of his nakedness. Then he realized, with a strong shiver, he was not alone.

His awareness stemmed from the sound of a cough, an “excuse-me” sort of cough. The sound was soft but loud enough to grab his attention, “Who’s there!” John hated that his voice hurt so much, sore from use and dehydration.

“Oh come now Johny, I know you are daft, but even you can’t be so thick-witted to think I would leave you alone for more than an hour!” The delighted voice said. Soon a body emerged from the shadows. Moriarty was back and he looked different, his eyes were darker, his posture was unstable, he seemed on edge. 

“John… John… Johnny …” he hummed and walked closer, his suit was different too, a dark blue instead of the silver one he wore before. His hands had a tremor to them that was not there before.

“I really thought that sex was —” He paused gesturing as though to catch the right word, “Animalistic. An urge that can be ignored when bigger and better things are at hand.”

His eyes turned to John and for some reason, there was no differentiation between his iris and pupil, just a solid circle of dark color. Moriarty frowned and walked closer to John, standing but a few feet away, “I stand corrected John. I was wrong. I was so… Wonderfully… Wrong!” His hand came up and he dragged his fingers slowly over John’s naked torso. 

“When I … fucked you,” He smiled at John’s involuntary flinch, “I was simply following the rules of the book, push in, pull out. Simple really. But then I found myself losing focus.” His hand paused it’s search briefly and he looked at John as though he found the answer to all his problems, “I never lose focus Johnny, and yet, there I was… For once… NOT THINKING!” 

Moriarty stepped back and mimed an explosion happening from his head, “It’s fantastic. I’ve never had … anything like that! I was of course intrigued, and I’m afraid I’ve become rather addicted.” He paused and leered at John, his face a horrible contortion of shadows, “You see… I was going to let you go… really it was Sherlock I wanted —,” he drew his tongue over his lips slowly, “But I am beginning to like my new toy a little too much to share.”

He slid his blazer off in a single, smooth movement. While pulling his shirttails out of his ironed pants he maintained a horrid eye-contact. His eyes smoldered and one hand reached to his fly, “I could just take you like this — “ he whispered, walking now to John. He stopped when their chests met and licked a long stripe over John’s neck.

“But it will be so much more fun with you at my feet,” he said considering. With a snap the cuff chains were loosened, allowing John to fall down the wall. He slid with a muffled yell of pain, feeling his muscles cramp and pull.

“Oh, you just reminded me!” Moriarty turned around and reached for something on a near table. John could not see what it was before he felt a large, spherical object forced into his mouth. He felt tight straps on the back of his head and knew then that he was gagged.

“Lovely, I must say, goldfish are so much fun to watch without all the idiotic racket coming out of their mouths.”

John was pushed onto his face roughly, he felt Moriarty walk behind him and struggled to his knees desperately. A hand forced his head down, making him see spots.

“Ah, you need to be reasonable Johnny…” Moriarty hissed inching his hands on John’s back. He gripped John’s hips with bruising force and slid his tongue over John’s coccyx.

John gasped painfully, he did not need this again, he really didn’t know what to do. There was no rescue… was he supposed to wait for Moriarty to use him and then take him… Was he going to take John away from any chance of being found? Would John ever see Sherlock again?

That thought did it for him, the burn in his eyes suddenly hurt more than the internal tears and bleeding, he just needed to escape. Wait for Moriarty at his weakest… right before his orgasm.

If that was meant to somehow ease the pain, it was a laughable effort. Moriarty pushed into John unexpectedly, the recently dried scabs opened with renewed vigor. John screamed again, the sound butchered by the gag. This was worse than he thought. He wasn’t even certain that he would remain conscious to try and escape. Even now he felt his mind go foggy with the pain. Sharp stinging, brutal thrusts.

John found himself begging for Sherlock.  _ Please. PLEASE! Please find me, Sherlock! God, I can’t take this! Please, Sherlock! STOP HIM! PLEASE STOP THIS! GOD, I CAN’T TAKE IT! _

Moriarty was now thrusting with urgency, he was strangely quiet as before, obviously shocked by the effect that pleasure had on him. He was grunting and seemed to struggle to get back under control. His voice reached a fever and suddenly the hot strings of come were spilled into John. That’s when John blacked out.


	6. Please be Okay John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay, college just started for me last week and I needed to get used to the new schedule of things, hopefully, this chapter makes up for it!

Sherlock was sweating, it was an unpleasant feeling, but it was comfortable compared with the sickening swing in his stomach. It had been far too long since he had John with him. And for some reason, his desperation to solve the case was being hindered by his own panic. In the most counter-productive way possible, Sherlock’s body refused to function properly, making solving the case harder than it should ever have been.

Currently, he was leaning against a filthy alley wall, a cold evening breeze swept by him and made him shift in his coat. He was waiting on his homeless network to relay to him all the relevant information regarding John’s kidnapping. Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and drew out a cigarette, he was strongly craving the nicotine and couldn’t double back home for the patches. 

The small click of a lighter sounded far too loud in the dark, and the brief warmth of the flame was out too quickly. Sherlock dragged a breath in and held it there; the horrible, bitter flavor was enough to make him blink awake. He let out the breath, watching as the smoke dissipated into the frigid air. Fuck, he was not doing good. 

Sherlock was so certain, given the worst-case scenario where John leaves him, he would be able to walk on his own two feet. Now, standing there alone in the alleyway, fearing the worst for his friend, Sherlock wasn’t sure anymore.

No, he was certain of what would happen; give it a week before he was back on cocaine, two months before he overdosed again, and by that point, he wouldn’t mind ending it all. He  _ needed _ John.

The fag was tossed away the moment he heard footfalls approaching. The small person was out of breath and struggling to run at a decent pace but came none-the-less to Sherlock rapidly. 

“Mr. ‘Olmes! I — He says he saw them take ‘im out back in a small cabbie!” The kid was panting but his eyes were wide with excitement. It was, after all, a guarantee of money the more he told Sherlock.

“Right, did they see where the cab stopped?” Sherlock asked sharply, his tone a little harsher than he intended. The kid ignored his demanding tone and continued eagerly, “They saw ‘im get pulled out by three men, yeah! An’ they had guns too! Was back at the old butcher shop, the closed deli! Said they ‘eard gunshots yesterday, two of ‘em.”

Sherlock felt as though his veins drained themselves of blood, he felt the world spin for a second before managing to regain control. He pressed fifty quid into the boy’s hand and took off to the fastest path to the deli.

He barely remembered to call Lestrade while crossing an unused road, “It’s the deli! They might be armed, I’m heading in.” He spoke the moment the phone connected and didn’t wait to hear Lestrade’s baffled shock or his loud objections.

Sherlock never felt a case as urgent as this pulling at him, and for once the motive lay in the victim. The idea that John, wherever he was, could be injured or …

Two gunshots the boy had said, and John’s sig was still on his bedside table. Sherlock reasoned that John could incapacitate his captors and get ahold of a firearm, but the chances were slim. This was Moriarty, every single door would have been monitored and watched, every move would have been anticipated. No, John would not have landed his hands on a firearm, regardless of his military training.

That left two other possibilities, Sherlock thought while vaulting over a large trash bin and pulling himself up a fire-escape. One, the shot was accidental or two, intentional. In the case of an accident they may have moved out and taken John with them, the noise would have attracted unwanted attention. 

If intentional, they were confident enough to give out their location and did not care for the consequences. Sherlock fisted his hands tightly, folding each finger into his palm with bruising force. There was a chance that John was shot at, injured but not killed. Moriarty needed him alive, that much was certain. 

His legs carried him quickly over the rain-washed rooftops with ease, but it was his stomach that fell over ledges and cracks. Nausea at the thought of John, alone. Perhaps the army veteran wouldn’t show an ounce of fear, but Sherlock knew better. Once the event would close; once he would be safe and sound at the flat, then the terror would set in. Nightmares with John thrashing awake and screaming; pleading from some unhearing entity to spare him or to spare the life of someone else. It was during those nights that the Sig was locked in the drawer, disassembled, for fear that John might accidentally fire it off.

Sherlock skidded to a halt a moment late and nearly slipped off the edge of the roof. The tiles were slick with some old moss and mildew and made for unstable ground at best. He was where he needed to be, and that was all that mattered. His phone vibrated a few times in insistent succession and he cursed his brother in his head while silencing the horrid device.

He crawled out of sight and observed the building’s defenses. It was a simple warehouse, windows barred up, and signs of foreclosure at both ends of the structure. Doors were either barred shut or left completely open, both revealing nothing of the dark interior. 

Standing by the front entrance, two men were smoking pungent cigars, neither looked suspicious, both standing inconspicuously and appearing to mind their own business.

Sherlock knew better, he spotted at once the familiar bulge in the back of their jeans suggesting a firearm and noted again the barely-visible earpieces on both of the men. They were Moriarty’s men, that much was certain. 

Suddenly, there was a scream from inside the building, a horrible scream at that. Loud, guttural, and pained. Sherlock could only think that it sounded like John and that he was about to kill everyone who had set their hands on him.

Slick like a cat in the shadows, Sherlock leaped down from the roof, landing softly on a lower platform. He darted behind the corner and tossed a stone for a sound distraction.

“Ca c'était quoi?” The man hissed towards the sound. Sherlock had to raise an eyebrow at the French, unlike Moriarty to hire French-men when he was so singularly British. It was ridiculously easy to discombobulate the man. Paralyzing his vocal cords with one direct hit and disarming him to point the gun at the second guard; all before he had even noticed the dark-cloaked detective.

“Monsieur, veuillez vous retirer de ma présence à moins que vous ne souhaitiez mourir,” Sherlock spoke with a slow icy French that made the pale guard drop his weapon at once. “Merci,” He smiled coldly and pushed past the guard into the doors and down into the dark, damp basements.

Sherlock found a flashlight moments after the realization hit him that he would need one. He held it in his left and concentrated on aiming the gun in front of him as steadily as he could. 

His breaths came out too loud for his ears; foggy plumes appearing and dissipating in the air.  _ I’m coming, John _ . There were two doors, one bordered up, and the other locked. Sherlock knelt quickly by the locked door and with the experience only he could have, picked the lock in under twenty seconds.

The door opened silently, and the first thing that hit Sherlock was the smell. A scent of human fear, something acidic and raw. The next thing that hit him was the sounds. Grunts… and muffled cries of pain. The third detail is what sent Sherlock down the dark and damp staircase; John’s voice. 

For all his patience and all his cleverness, Sherlock later realized that he made a very foolish mistake. He practically skidded down the steps in his haste and did not even think (something which Sherlock  _ always  _ did) before rushing towards the sound. The horrid sight he was greeted with would be imprinted in his mind for a long time, undeletable and staining. 

John was on his knees, his face battered up and bleeding and smearing the floor with his tears. He was fully naked and every inch of him was bruised and scratched, but it was his rear that was the worst sight.

Blood, both old and new, was splattered from his arse all over his hips. It appeared as though someone had shot him and the blood had erupted in fountains. 

But the blood was the better half of the picture; pausing in his thrusts and appearing delighted was Moriarty, his suit stained with blood and his pants down to his knees. He was looking at Sherlock with a kind of disappointment now, almost as though he was contradicted on how to feel.

“Well, this is a lovely surprise —”

Sherlock’s hand was shaking and he felt white-hot fury boil his blood. All he could hear was a sharp and high whistle in his ears which grew in volume and deafened him. His finger settled on the gun’s trigger and he aimed it at Moriarty without hesitation. 

Moriarty smiled widely and pulled out fully from John, a small flow of blood poured out and John slumped unconscious to the floor. “Now now Sherlock, do you really want to risk this?” The sound of multiple people walking down the stairs brought Sherlock out of his haze, but his gun remained trained on the psychopath. 

Men in dark suits came down and each had a semi-automatic rifle trained on John and Sherlock. Meanwhile, Moriarty had tucked himself back into his pants and was looking utterly delighted. 

“Well, this worked out even better than I thought! I never even considered how wonderful it would be if you  _ watched _ me take your toy!” Moriarty quieted and looked at Sherlock thoughtfully, “Don’t you suppose you should put the gun down Sherl? I mean, my men are more than happy to shoot John here first and foremost,” 

Sherlock was shaking again, he refused to talk, he knew that once his mouth would open all he would do is scream; for the first time since he was five years old, Sherlock was incapable of forming a sentence.

Moriarty looked all the more delighted with it, he walked up to Sherlock and his body reeked of blood and  _ John _ … John’s blood. The mad man smiled and then said, “I had so much fun with him, Sherlock. I hope you won’t mind sharing your toys with me some time again…” Then he walked behind Sherlock and hummed a tune, “By-eee I’ll see you again very … very… soon,”

There was a loud chopping sound of a helicopter arriving atop the building and it was all Sherlock could do to not wheel around and blast Moriarty’s head clean off. The only thing that stopped him was watching John’s unmoving body, his broken and bleeding body. Once the last suited man left Sherlock hurled the gun away and ran to John. He slid the last few feet on his knees and whipped off his coat to drape it around his friend.

“Oh god! John? JOHN! Can you hear me? John!” His hands fumbled with the chains before he was able to successfully unlock them and then he saw the blistering, raw skin that was chaffed from the cuffs and it just made him even angrier. 

John’s eyes fluttered open and he opened his mouth to speak, no sound came out but his eyes spoke volumes. The pupils dilated at once and the hard lines softened; his eyes smiled with silent gratitude and then promptly closed again. 

Sherlock’s hand came around to cup the army doctor’s roughened cheek, his thumb brushed aside a splatter of blood and for the first time in his life, Sherlock felt something incomprehensible. He felt… relief… indebted to whatever forces controlled the rolls of dice in the world. And most of all, he felt this intense pull in his chest; floating and tethered to the physical body of John. It was heavier than gold and stronger than diamond. It was invisible and all-enveloping. It was warm as well as biting cold. 

All that, and yet so much more he could not identify, and it all accumulated into one urge. The urge to press his lips to the doctor’s face, to feel the warmth and life on his own lips, almost as though to silence any words of ill-hope from his mouth. And though Sherlock knew absently that this was crossing a line, that there were rules and practices in place to stop him from doing this, he brushed them aside.

Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s forehead, and for the first time since his teen years, he felt like crying. The skin was warm and soft, and — it was John, he was alive. 


	7. Because Everyone Likes Waking up in a Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now we get to see John at the Hospital after getting rescued. So sorry for the long wait. I just was so busy with college and holidays XD I'm hoping to make this fanfic kinda short because I have an idea for another one that might be more fun idk...

John woke up feeling like he’d been hit by a fast-moving (and rather rude) train. His mouth was dry and his bones ached. Despite this, it wasn’t the pain that made him feel most uncomfortable, it was the fact that he knew he was in a hospital.

At some point, John was able to connect the sounds of occasional sirens and the steady beep that was monitoring his pulse with the bright white lights he was seeing, and come to the conclusion that he was in a hospital. That in itself was not a problem. What was a problem was that he was currently there as a patient. 

And rather like a petulant, sulky child, John Hamish Watson did not like being a patient at the hospital. Especially when he had a “Dr” as a title. Perhaps it was intentional, but John did not wake up for nearly three days since he had arrived, something that worried only the new nurses on staff, and a very loud and displeased detective.

John was awake in his mind by the end of the third day and became fondly aware of the familiar presence of Sherlock in the room. Perhaps it wasn’t so much the acknowledgement of his detective friend being there but rather the unusual absence of nurses checking in. Sherlock did have a rather good repellent towards humans. 

It took a few more hours before John was finally able to open his eyes. It was blessedly dark now, and he concluded that it was night time. There was a soft light coming from a distant hallway, and it was very obvious that this was a closed and private room. Perhaps funded by a certain government official. John scanned his surroundings slowly and made note of the several paper stacks on the desks. There was then a cup of water floating in front of his eyes and he felt the cool, smooth liquid soothe the irritation of his throat.

“Better?” A husky baritone voice asked from his left. John turned his head a few inches and  _ finally _ was able to see Sherlock. The detective looked a right mess, his hair was uncombed and he had brutal, dark circles under his eyes. His hands were shaking and his knuckles looked as though they had met a brick wall one too many times. Sherlock’s eyes however, were as clear and sharp as the day they met and he was analyzing John’s expression with an unsettling vigilance. The look was normally reserved for the most difficult crime scenes, to have it trained on John was a very strange feeling.

Then. The memories came back.

It was akin to a physical blow, all the horror and the fear and the shock hit John in the chest to such an extent that he blacked out. His blankness was not, however, peaceful. Rather as he floated in the world of dreams he saw everything all over again. Each scene played out again, and again as though to imprint the memories in his brain. Every detail was noticed. Every phantom feeling was somehow multiplied.

Now that the shock of the moment had fled him he was left with an enormous shame. John Watson was a proud man, he didn’t have much to be ashamed of, and yet the humiliation he felt, knowing he had been so violated was … immeasurable. 

As he slowly came back to consciousness the shame seemed to increase ten-fold. He heard voices talking — about him — and wanted to sink into the mattress and perhaps deep into the earth. Better yet, perhaps he could float above it all so that he could watch everyone coming and know when to run. 

That thought was startling, John was not a coward, and he did not run from enemy fire. Yet that reasoning only seemed to support his desire to run. This was not enemy fire he was facing, no … that would have been much easier to deal with. This was friendly fire; people wanting to help him, and ask him how he feels and — invade him with care. That was HIS job, and he did not like to be the recipient of the work.

The moment John was able to sit up and feed himself he began to argue for his immediate release from hospital care. He used every card he had, ‘I’m a doctor’ or ‘I cannot afford more treatment’ sometimes, ‘I have a landlady who can be my caretaker if I’m that ill!’ And when worst came to worst, ‘I will bloody leave this place on my own terms if you don’t let me out this instant!’

That one just got him a security camera in front of his door. The entire time Sherlock watched with a muted expression, either he was in shock or just confounded by all the regulations. That aside, he did his best to not deduce every nurse who got on his nerves, and to remain somewhat cordial throughout the messy paperwork. 

John was then left alone in the room for a while, when a few officers and a doctor made their way in. The officers he recognized from the Yard, but the doctor was nearly twice his age and had a motherly look about her. He did not recognise her at all.

“John Hamish Watson?” One of the officers, a young lad of 30 with a slight figure and warm eyes glanced at John to confirm. 

“Present, though leave out the middle name. I prefer not to hear it out loud,” John tried for a smile but it came as a mere grimace. 

“Aye, we can do that,” The young cop said with a bright smile, “We are sorry to hear about what happened but, we were hoping you could give us a statement yeah?” His voice had something faintly scottish and he spoke with a bit of a nervous jitter. 

The second officer, much older and greyer and with stern but kind eyes took up the reins then, “My name is Officer Gladstone, I came on behalf of Scotland Yard to take your statement on what occurred while you were kidnapped by Jim Moriarty. I have also been requested to ask you permission for access to all the biological samples in regards to the rape.”

Well, there it was. All out in the open… Jim Moriarty raped him. If John wasn’t feeling so fucking miserable perhaps he would have laughed. The idea that he would have ever been a victim of rape was so far off his list of worst-possible-outcomes, and yet here he was. The biological samples must include the blood and semen that was still in his body as he recovered. 

John felt a wave of sickness wash over him. Was it possible that some of Jim was still in him. A loud banging on the door startled him out of his disturbing thoughts. Sherlock had obviously lost patience. 

“You said fifteen minutes, officer! It’s been fifteen minutes and twenty seconds now!” The annoyed detective seemed prepared to break down the door so rather than call a scene John simply shouted, “Fuck off Sherlock I can handle them for ten more minutes!” 

A loud huff, and then retreating footsteps. 

“Sorry, right, erm… yes the statement… Could I perhaps write it down?” John continued. He didn’t have any desire to hear his own voice recount the events and he was certain that the hospital room was bugged… given that it was Mycroft who secured it for him. Impossible git.

“Yes… of course, whatever you feel most comfortable with.” The younger officer said, and handed him a clipboard with a few pieces of paper, the first of which had a few guiding questions which John ignored. 

John tried not to recount everything in too much detail, he didn’t want to trigger the memories… ahh well it was a bit late for that now wasn’t it. His head was already swarming with the images, he would bet that even Sherlock would be impressed with his memory retention of the scene. He gave as best as a description as he could; recounting the clothing, the faces, even the smells. 

By the time he had finished and checked the box for the biological samples to be taken and tested, his hand had a nasty cramp and he wanted nothing more than to just leave the damned hospital.

“Thank you so much for your cooperations Dr. Watson,” The old lady doctor said softly as she took out a separate form for him to sign. It was a more detailed form on the biological samples, and required a bit more confirmation than just a checkbox. John thought it quite hilarious that they would ask, “given the perpetrator of this crime is found, would you like to prosecute him/her in a court of law?” He definitely could see Jim in court (that would be a sight) but the matter was so plebeian that the genius wouldn’t even bother to come in person.

Regardless, John wanted to go back to normal and forget about this entire ordeal, should be easy enough, he was feeling vastly better already! He checked the ‘no’ option and handed over the paperwork to the doctors.

“Thank you, I’ll talk with your primary physician about letting you off early since you feel that so impertinent,” The female doctor said with a smile. Finally,  _ finally _ , the others left and John was alone… for about four seconds (a record). 

Sherlock burst in muttering something about “slow idiots”. When he walked to John’s side though, his entire demeanor changed. Suddenly his shoulders drooped and his eyes dimmed. His mouth, which was in a tight frown, slackened considerably into a loose grimace. His hands, normally confidently resting behind him now fiddled together at his lap. By all signs of human-body language, Sherlock was the definition of uncomfortable. 

_ For goodness sakes! _ His eyes wouldn’t even reach John’s face. And despite all that, when he spoke, he did so without inflection; his usual baritone tambor without the slightest hint of his body language present, “How are you feeling John?” He began, seating himself on the chair which had been his home for the past week. 

“Bloody tired of all this nagging and molly-coddling,” John answered honestly, still a little baffled at the contradiction presented in his friend. With a sudden surge of guilt John realized that after all this, Moriarty had still gotten away, “Any leads as to where… erm… Moriarty is?” John felt oddly numb saying the name of the man who had… harmed him. It was strange, he didn’t quite accept it, despite the nagging and stinging pain in his rear. 

Sherlock’s eyes hardened, “He’s been leaving false trails for us to follow, each leading to a ridiculous deadend. He’s toying with his power too much, it’s only a matter of time before he slips up.” 

John nodded, and attempted to sit up straighter without wincing too badly. He didn’t succeed in the latter. Sherlock continued, wonderfully oblivious (though really he wasn’t) to John’s wincing, “He’s desperate, his moves are erratic… there’s no pattern,” he paused, looking thoughtful, “Its almost as though he is panicking,” 

“Why do you think that’s happening?” John asked, if only to avoid a silence. Sherlock looked at him and then — he bit his lip and looked away. “I — I’m not sure. It doesn’t make sense for him to be emotionally affected by any of this, but all evidence shows he is… emotionally affected that is.” Sherlock wasn’t exactly stumbling over his words, but to John it was a very strong sign of his friend’s unease. 

When the silence came, it wasn’t half as bad as John had feared; it gave him a moment to reflect. Moriarty had clearly never had sex. His performance had not lasted long and he was too surprised by the physical effects to have had any experience prior. There was then a high chance that like any newfound pleasure, Moriarty might have gotten addicted. John doubted it though; a genius so entirely involved with the pleasures of mind couldn’t be taken by such base amusements.

Sherlock had been watching John this whole time and seemed mildly perturbed by his friend’s silence. It was a bit unusual for John to be quiet. Finally, unable to stand the worried-puppy-face that Sherlock was wearing any more, John spoke up again, “Well, we can’t solve a case from bed, otherwise you’d never leave the flat. Help me up yeah?” He twisted himself out and winced (only a little, he thought proudly) as Sherlock pulled him up. 

Without great fuss, they managed to get out of the hospital and find a cabbie. The air was biting cold but refreshing to John and he requested a window open during the ride. It was his first taste of fresh air since his capture by Moriarty, and he couldn’t be happier about being out. 

Though he was growing more and more anxious about the state of the flat. It wouldn’t do to come home if the place was overturned by Sherlock’s anxious tantrums. Ever the mind-reader Sherlock spoke up, “I wasn’t at the flat during your stay at the hospital…” He said it off-handedly as though it didn’t really matter one way or another. But he was pointedly staring out the opposite window, and John could almost swear he saw those eyes dart to his reflection. 

“Ah… Bit of an inconvenience, that? Did you manage to kip somewhere for a bit?” 

“N — no” Sherlock dragged the monosyllable out a bit too long to be normal. John simply rolled his eyes and said, “Figures that even at a hospital you can’t be bothered to keep yourself well. We’re getting take out yeah? Thai or Chinese?” 

Sherlock hummed, “Doesn’t matter…” but his lips were pulled up into a small smile.


	8. A Quiet Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am sooooooo sorry about how long this chapter took. I had a rough start with college and a new job but I think I'm getting better at it now. Hopefully when I finish this fanfic I'll be able to start on the next one! I'm super excited to do so!

Sherlock had to work on keeping his mouth shut for the majority of the ride to 221B. His mind was working at rapid speed, begging him to ask John everything and find out all he could about Moriarty and what had transpired. All the same, he hadn’t been idle in the hospital, he had invested quite some time into researching how to best respond to such a situation as John had been through and talking about the trauma was not recommended just yet. He avoided touching John as best as he could without seeming unusual, but he found that it was harder in practice than in theory.

Apparently, comfortable touches were something he and John did so frequently that it had not even registered in his mind. A tug here or there to draw one’s attention, a delicate shove, a nudge, or a rough elbow when someone was out of line (usually directed at Sherlock, but that didn’t mean anything). 

The fact that now Sherlock had to pay attention to these brushes now, made him so much more aware of how frequent they were. It was quite surprising given Sherlock didn’t count himself a very tactile person. Well, John had always been an exception to the rules. 

They made their way to 221B in a rather thick silence, one that enveloped Sherlock with nerves but seemed to not affect John in the slightest. Mrs. Hudson was out with Mrs. Turner, most likely having a gossip on dull matters, but it left the flat blissfully quiet and uninhabited. John called in for take out while paying the cab fare as they finally stopped in front of the flat. 

“Yeah thanks mate, cheers!” He hung up, and walked confidently to the flat, and if Sherlock wasn’t who he was, he could almost ignore the wince that each step brought John.

“Right then, I forgot I don’t have the keys, Sherlock?” John patted his pockets just in case but caught the keys that Sherlock threw his way with ease. 

Sherlock was dumbfounded, according to all his research John should not be acting so… Normally. There wasn’t even a hint of fear in the soldiers’ eyes, not a trace of hesitancy or suspicion as he climbed the stairs to enter their shared quarters. Perhaps most surprising of all was this strange, bright-eyed look that John had. It was as though nothing happened. 

Which was preposterous because Sherlock was there, he saw John chained down to the floor, bleeding and helpless, tears rolling down his face. It was downright unnatural that John would react this way. Sherlock didn’t notice that he had been standing in the doorway this whole time until John paused on the way to the kitchen and coughed pointedly.

“You alright Sherlock?” He smiled softly.

That felt as though it should have been the final straw, if anything Sherlock should be the one asking that question.

“Fine, yes.” Sherlock took off his coat and closed the door. The kettle sounded and soon there was the delightful smell of tea floating about the flat. 

Sherlock pursed his lips and sat down on his armchair. This was wrong, everything about this situation was backwards, he should be… doing something. John passed him his tea and sat down, “Right, any new cases then?”

Sherlock set his cup of tea down slowly, and looked at John, really looked at him. His eyes were bright, his forehead smooth, but his skin looked taut, pulled as though in a strain. His eyebrows were high, and his mouth was in a smile, but both seemed terribly put-on. His hands were still, but his knuckles were white. John was tense. No, not just tense, but posed. Like a cornered animal, he was waiting to spring. 

“No. No cases.” If his response was clipped, it was unintentional. Sherlock sipped the tea; it burned his tongue and gave him a chance to focus on something else. John sighed and turned on the telly. He flipped through the channels with little intent other than going through the motion. Sherlock’s focus was concentrated solely on John; trying and failing to find a decent conversation starter. When the tea cups were suddenly emptied of their contents and John turned off the telly, Sherlock realized he had been lost in thought for well over an hour.

John rose, and stretched, he carried away the empty cups to the kitchen sink and turned on the tap to wash them. He finished and rubbed dry his hands. All the while he was calm, collected, and his face just conveyed that look of warmth that only John could make. “I’m calling it a night. Try to get some sleep Sherlock. You look dead on your feet.” 

And because Sherlock didn’t know how to respond (damn wasn’t  _ he  _ supposed to ensure that John got adequate sleep?), he simply nodded and watched John’s receding figure. The lights went out and all became quiet at 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock pressed his hands together, his fingers were cold but that was obviously because he didn’t eat, all he could think of was John. By every rule in the book, John was an anomaly, he was… the deviant, the outlier on the graph. He desired danger, he loathed safety, and now despite a clear trauma, he was not reacting. 

Indeed, what to do when a solution would not react? Add a catalyst to speed up the process. If Sherlock were to present John a certain scenario where he would be forced to confront his trauma, then he would most probably react. In the case that he does, that could mean the beginning of his recovery. Denial was a stage as well… but John was a factual man (thank gods for that) and it didn’t sit well that he would deny anything that happened to him. 

John was also incredibly brave. If faced with the trauma head-on there was a small probability that perhaps, he would heal faster. Now then, how to instigate this catalyst and what would it be?

Sherlock certainly couldn’t ask John outright, because then he had the option of refusing, and that would ruin the entire process and hinder him further. It would also have the devastating effect of … talking about emotions… which was something Sherlock would like to steer clear of. Thus the catalyst had to be a stimulus to an involuntary action. Something visual, or physical.

Well, there was the fact that John was physically assaulted, so perhaps a physical stimulus would be… a bit not good. Well, that left two other options; visual and auditory stimulus. If both those failed then Sherlock would have to resort to physical. Of course, all this meant that he needed to observe John closely over the next few days and monitor vitals as well as emotional reactions, he would use those basic findings as the control for the process and then measure the changes as they occur resulting from the stimuli. 

It seemed quite clean and simple but there were many variables to measure, and some would be less significant than others. For instance John’s tremors or his limp, those normally resurfaced with a trigger, thus there was a chance that they would make an appearance. 

Then there was John’s dating; seeing as this was a sexually-related trauma there was a chance that John would find sex repulsive now. Or perhaps he would overcompensate and attempt to numb himself to those reactions by having more sex. 

Of course there were relationships to be observed and habits to be monitored and a plethora of specific verbal structures to analyze. His tone would play an important role in deciding his mood and overall effect from the stimulus. It was only then that Sherlock opened his eyes and took in his actual surroundings, it was well past two in the morning and the flat was dark in the absence of any light. Sherlock rose stiff-jointed, but feeling quite pleased with his plan and somewhat excited. After all, this would be the first experiment meant to actually help John, and that would certainly bring up his *kudos* points in John’s book. After a brief roll of his shoulders, Sherlock began to look for an unused notebook in the kitchen (they were scattered around the flat for no reason than to have them readily available at all times). 

That was when Sherlock realized what was so wrong. The flat was silent. It was around this time (or earlier) that John would wake up thrashing and panicked by dreams and nightmares. The only time John slept like the dead was when they had been going on without sleep for days at a time (Sherlock estimated that it took 47.5 hours of being awake and active before John truly and utterly collapsed from lack of sleep). As such; John would have been awake by now and should have been mumbling or groaning or giving some hint at his wakefulness. The lack of sound therefore told that John had actually never gone to sleep.

For some reason, this fell rather heavy on Sherlock, of course it wasn’t like he kept track of John’s sleeping patterns, it was just something that he happened to observe. Similar to his assessment of how John liked his tea (90 degrees celsius seemed to be his favorite), or his favorite jumper (pale cream cable knit one, quite hideous but cozy). These weren’t things that Sherlock looked for, or well, tried to look for. He just observed John and what made John happy or sad and used that information to his advantage. 

Right now, he reckoned that a soft melody on the violin would help lull John to sleep, something dreadfully pedestrian but apparently necessary for most of society. Sherlock walked over to his case and picked up the instrument, he drew a quiet pizzacado to make certain the instrument was tuned, without much more hesitance he rosined his bow and set about playing Adagio in pianissimo.

He was on the second repetition when he finally heard John shift around and then snore lightly. He smiled to himself, John only snored if he was really tired. And so his plan worked wonderfully. Sherlock continued to play and tried to formulate his plan of action. Tomorrow was as good a day as any to start, and so the first stages of the experiment were rolling. Stage one: observe the control and make notes of any and all behaviors.


	9. Observe, Note, And Respond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock puts into action his experiment that he planned for John. At least some of the results are anticipated!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! I'm super super SUPER greatful that you all are reading and enjoying this fic! This is sooooooo surreal to me to be able to write about Sherlock. It's quickly become my favorite show. I have planned out some other fics as well, and I hope to pre-write them so that the chapters come out more frequently....but lol if you know me then you know I am anything but consistent with writing!!!  
> Reach out to me in the comments I LOVE LOVE OMG LOVE hearing from you guys bc I'm totally a fangirl for this fandom and like... more friends in this the better XDD   
> Let me know if you guys are enjoying my work!

The morning came unexpectedly fast, and Sherlock barely had the time to grab his notebook and a pen before John’s steps signaled his awakening. The time was 6:07 AM and so began the first day of observing John Watson, Sherlock had decided that to make the observations as unbiased and accurate he would need to keep the environment as normal as possible. Meaning he had to ensure Lestrade did not come up unless it was for a case. 

“‘Morning Sh’lock,” John yawned before closing the bathroom door. Sherlock jotted a check for morning greeting in his checklist and made no notes for unusual behaviors. Then the shower started.

It continued for nearly half an hour. And for a military man that was enough time for making a bed, shaving, showering, and standing at attention for the morning drill. In other words, John was taking far too much time even for his long showers. Sherlock made a note and took out his violin to give him the appearance of doing something. 

He thumbed the strings mindlessly while listening to the water pour; the cadence was steady, so John was most likely standing still. Unusual for him as this was his customary time to take care of his more base biological needs. Unless… Sherlock paused for a moment realizing that perhaps John would even feel repulsed by doing sexual acts on himself. That would hint at the damage done even worse than Sherlock initially thought. What if it wasn’t just that one time that Moriarty raped him? Had there been more? Suddenly Sherlock felt truly uneasy, his stomach felt like acid crawling up his throat, he wanted to vomit for no reason other than sheer terror. It was with admirable willpower that he overcame the urge, got up leaving his notebook behind and set the kettle to boil. He wanted something dark and bitter to rid him of the acidic flavor in his mouth. 

The taps shut before the kettle finished, and John was out as Sherlock poured the hot water over a dark turkish coffee and a strong brew of English black tea. John’s hair was mussed up from the steam of the shower but he seemed to have dashed out of the bathroom without fixing it. Yet another discrepancy in his routine. 

Sherlock forced himself to pick up the paper from yesterday and open it, reading or at least scanning the images for sake of something to do. John stopped by the table and seemed surprised, “Coffee? I didn’t think you drank it without cream?”

“Occasionally the urge hits me,” Sherlock responded without lifting his eyes, he set down the paper and lifted the mug to covertly inspect John closer: tired, rushed, cold water for his shower, did not shave, tremors seemed to be back and his lips were tight, he looked somewhat pale and his pupils were small. 

“Sleep much?” Sherlock questioned innocently.

“Oh — yeah, um, don’t remember much though, sorry.” John said distractedly and started nosing around in the cupboards for something edible.

“Hmm, quite expected — how soon do you hope to return to your practice?”

A loud clatter signaled the cereals falling down as John looked over to Sherlock, “What do you mean? I’m due today for an afternoon shift.” He sounded genuinely confused and Sherlock hesitated for a moment before relaying the news, “they were notified by the hospital staff to grant you leave for a few weeks and they will not expect you anytime soon —”

“Buggering hell! Why? How else are we expected to pay the rent?” John exclaimed, putting back the cereals and instead grabbing a banana. Sherlock took another sip of the bitter mud-so-called-coffee and supplied the most easy answer, “I’ll use Mycroft’s card — he won’t know… immediately.”

“Sherlock is that really —” John seemed to give up halfway into his sentence at the insistent look on Sherlock’s face. He huffed and sat down across from his flatmate and peeled his banana without much more resistance. For a few minutes they sat together quietly, John eating and opening his laptop and Sherlock pretending to read, sipping his horrid coffee and observing John’s every move. 

This pattern continued for the entire day, and the next, and the next until about five days after John arrived home from the Hospital he had enough. 

“WHY ARE YOU OBSERVING ME LIKE I’M A BLOODY CRIME SCENE?” It was late in the evening, they had take-out food in front of them and the telly playing quietly in the background. Sherlock had a fork midway to his mouth when John erupted and he carefully returned the floating fork back to its plate. 

“Well — I thought it quite obvious at this point, John.” He began carefully. His hands folded together and he leaned back a bit as his nerves arose again. This was delicate and quite dangerous ground to be treading, but he had expected this outbreak sooner or later. 

“Obvious? How is it obvious that out of the blue you are suddenly observing my every move in the flat Sherlock? I haven’t been doing anything lately to warrant your suspicions and —” All of a sudden John went silent. Perhaps it was due to Sherlock’s continued expectant gaze, or the realization that he was not all that normal after all. John’s tone hushed by a considerable amount when he spoke again, “It’s about… what happened then? Isn’t it?”

“Of course.” Sherlock answered bluntly, and then remained silent. He wasn’t exactly sure how to continue from this point, there were plenty of articles explaining how to offer emotional support — but that wasn’t his plan precisely. John took a deep breath and averted his eyes, “I suppose I’ve been a little out-of-sorts and not quite aware if I’ve changed our routine much… I assume it’s upset you then?”

“What has?” Sherlock asked not unkindly. 

“The… incident…” John’s voice was now ridiculously quiet and small and it was so not-right that Sherlock wanted to break something. In a feat of incredible self-control however, he simply breathed in deeply and began to speak. “John, I hope you know that whatever it is that occurred during your kidnapping you are entitled to keep to yourself, however, I would stress upon you that it is most recommended to speak about those events with someone… professional.” 

For a moment John seemed trapped between an expression of amusement and shock, then he gathered himself into something a little more formal and said, “Are you suggesting I attend therapy then?”

“Fundamentally, yes.” 

“And I am going to answer with, no.”

“No?” Sherlock felt a little surprised, John was a doctor, he should be most certainly acquainted with trauma of the mental sort, and should definitely know that it is best treated early on. John appeared, however, relentless and adamant about his decision, “Completely and utterly, no.”

“Might there be a … rational reasoning for this … response?” Sherlock tried. His hands were still folded under his chin in his customary pose of thinking, but John’s hands had begun to clench into fists and were pulsing with tension. 

“I believe I am quite capable of discerning my own state-of-being and I am confident in saying that I do  _ not _ require therapy and I am perfectly functional as usual.” His voice was firm and his eyes were hard, but his pulse was rapid and his fists were clenching and unclenching involuntarily.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a bit, “Granted what you say is biased as it is your own opinion, would you allow for a second perspective?” John did not answer immediately so Sherlock continued ruthlessly. “Over the past five days I have collected enough evidence to not only suggest you attend some rehabilitation therapy and physical therapy, but to also recommend a change of environments, as it were.” Sherlock then took out his little notebook where he had detailed records of John’s habits over the past few days, “You’ll find that my observations are not without good cause, John, and I insist you read over them yourself and perhaps grant it a practitioner’s opinion rather than your own.” 

John pursed his lips tightly and flipped through the pages slowly at first and then with growing shock and disbelief, “Why on earth were you tracking my meal times and my sleep times — what! Sherlock you shouldn’t be monitoring my laundry. What purpose would that even solve? Bloody Mary, Sherlock those things are private! Water intake, calorie intake, pulse rates based on proximity to different objects and people? Sherlock, what is even the purpose for all this?” 

Sherlock barely suppressed his eye roll, “John you are being difficult without a good cause. You are obviously struggling with the — trauma — and I would like it if you took care of yourself now while it is still easily dealt with.” Sherlock looked like he wanted to say more but John had his hand up in  _ stop please _ signal. 

“Why?” John asked quietly. His voice was quiet and strangely steady but thick with a suppressed emotion that Sherlock couldn’t identify as rage or pain. 

“I just explained to you —”

“No Sherlock, not why you think I need it… but why does it matter to you?”

For a second Sherlock was taken aback, “John, I care about you! I — You’ve suffered and it bothers me that you are so… affected!” Sherlock then stood up, John was being difficult and it was impertinent that he made his intentions clear, “I cannot have you destroyed by this… this… ordeal. You are irreplaceable to me John! Surely you know that! Now forgive my vulgarity but you will get your bloody arse into therapy or else I will drag you there kicking and screaming!”

For a long while, John was stunned silent. Sherlock felt his cheeks heat up a bit as he realized how emotional he reacted. “Well, that’s settled then.” He spoke stiffly, and adjusted his blazer rather self-consciously. John was still looking a cross between befuddled, amused, and slightly frightened. 

“Alright then,” his eyes were questioning, but his voice was rather decided, “I will get in touch with Ella and see about returning to therapy.”

“Right. Good.” Sherlock responded curtly and then turned to take out his violin. He opened the case and the zipper was rather loud in the sudden silence that fell in the flat. Only as he raised the instrument to his shoulder and prepared to tune it did John speak again, “It’s really not true what they say about you Sherlock.”

“Oh. Well. I never discourage them…” The reply was soft and rather surprised, mirroring the expression on Sherlock’s unseen face. 

John sucked in a short breath-like-sigh and spoke with a refrained tone, “You are no sociopath Sherlock, never were.” With that sentence, he rose and took the empty take-out dishes to the kitchen.


	10. Back to Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therapy. I think?

John sat in the cab a little longer than necessary, he just really wanted a few more moments before this… new phase would begin. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Ella, she was perfectly likable; smart, quick, to the point, and not coddling. All traits he could appreciate. No, it was more of the fact that he had to talk about what happened. That he wasn’t looking forward to. 

The past few weeks had been nightmarish. Sleep was a foriegn concept and John had taken to sleeping only after taking a large dosage of Temazepam, something he normally wouldn’t take, or even advise to his patients. He had hardly been able to look at himself in the mirror without thinking of what had happened. He felt disgusted with his body and no matter how much he scrubbed the filth lingered. It got to a point where he was repulsed by his own touch and only his medical training forced him to shower or decloth at all. That wasn’t even mentioning his irrational fear that every man he passed was Moriarty. It was stupid, worse than his ridiculous PTSD, at least then it felt justifiable. This illogical fear of every man in the tube was just plain irritating. Suddenly he was shivering and scared whenever a man passed him in a Tesco aisle? It was complete madness and John loathed himself for it.

He KNEW why he felt like this, he knew the fundamentals of what he had gone through, he could read back the stupid essays he wrote in medschool on these very topics. So why didn’t that stop him from feeling like this? Why on earth would the symptoms persist, if he knew and acknowledged them? That was the main reason for his irritation, but the lack of breakfast could have added to that. John took a fleeting breath and exited the cab before the driver would lose patience. The building was inconspicuous alongside the others and to anyone it would appear a home like any other. John hadn’t yet raised his fist and the door opened. 

Ella looked prim and proper as ever and a little concerned, “John. Punctual as always, please come in.” John took one last longing look outside and then squared his shoulders and walked in. 

He walked out almost an hour and a half later feeling both ridiculously tired and emotionally drained. There was a reason that he normally had his therapy sessions later in the evening. He couldn’t even fathom making dinner tonight and decided to go with take-out once he consulted Sherlock on his preference. 

The moment he walked into the flat however, he was pleasantly surprised with the smell of Chinese lo-mein coming from the living room and the sight of Sherlock setting down some cartons on the coffee table. 

“Oh, um wow… What’s all this then?” He asked quite dumbly. Sherlock looked up at him and for a second his eyes softened beyond anything Sherlockian. There was some sort of understanding and … care in his eyes that John found really hard to believe. But just as he took a step forward to try and see Sherlock closely, the look was gone and replaced with a trademark smirk.

“Well, assuming that your eyes haven’t already begun to fail, I would hope that you would be able to use rudimentary deduction and tell me the answer to that yourself.” 

John snorted his laughter and sat down in his chair grabbing the carton placed on his edge, “Thanks Sherlock. Really.”

“Don’t mention it.” The voice was impassive, but was under laced with genuine affection. For a while the two ate in respective and comfortable silence and then Sherlock turned on the telly and John cleared the cartons. 

A dull talk show was playing and John wasn’t really paying all that much attention to it. Suddenly, Sherlock turned to him and said, “Did it help then?”

“Sorry, did what help?” John asked, turning his focus solely on Sherlock. 

The detective narrowed his eyes and continued, “Therapy with Ella?” 

“I… I don’t know. I didn’t talk to her about the — erm — event.” John sighed. Sherlock froze for a minute, and for the first time he seemed completely and utterly confused. Haltingly, and with clearly growing frustration, he leaned towards John asking, “Well, how do you expect to get any better if you don’t confront the issue?” 

“I don’t.” John sighed and ran a tired hand down his face. “I just… I can’t tell her everything. I can’t tell her how it happened and I can’t explain to her who it was or why he did it. It’s information that I can’t tell her. Not just because it’s uncomfortable… but because… It’s literally a government secret. Mycroft had contacted me before our session as a reminder to keep most of my talk under wraps.” 

Sherlock, hands steepled underneath his chin in his thinking-position, remained silent up until his brother’s name was mentioned, “god he’s annoying. Why do you listen to every word he says?” The question was redundant as Sherlock continued talking before John could answer. “I didn’t consider those issues, I assumed that she was in confidence as well but seeing as she is not…” Sherlock’s eyes suddenly went wide and his hands clapped down to his lap, “John. How would you like to talk to me instead?” 

A silence fell over the two of them, and Sherlock realized he perhaps should not have offered that. He hesitated not sure if to take it back or to let John refuse. 

John was looking a fair bit surprised, but when he spoke it was in a comparatively level tone, “Sherlock. You do realize that … erm… while I appreciate the offer… I don’t recall you ever being the sit-and-listen kind of person that… well, that I would need for that job to work.”

Sherlock felt a little hurt by that, despite that it was true, or maybe because it was true. Regardless he straightened up and said (a bit pompously), “I am capable of fitting in any role that I need, John. I would sit and listen for however long you need and I will, of course refrain from making any commentary deemed unnecessary.”

John cracked a smile at that, “Even if you were a licensed therapist Sherlock, it wouldn’t be recommended for you to try and help me.”

“I’m not your immediate family, John. And from the amount of research I have conducted these past few weeks, I wouldn’t say I’m far off from being a licensed therapist.” Sherlock insisted. 

John snorted again in a laugh. Then he simply looked at Sherlock for a while, “You’re serious then?”

“Of course.” Sherlock replied evenly. John leaned back and appeared to consider Sherlock’s proposition. His gaze was steady but there was a smile on his face that suggested his outward disapproval. “You are bloody serious —” He whispered. Sherlock did his best to not roll his eyes at the redundancy. Finally John got up, “Right, I’ll give this a go, but this stays strictly between us yeah?”

“Obviously, unless you mention feeling one of the three things that mean I am forced to alert other —” Sherlock was cut off by John who was vehemently holding up his hand, “Yes, yes, I mean, no. I — that will not be a problem Sherlock, thank you.” John chuckled and walked off to the kitchen.

Sherlock knew he was going to get a few doses of liquid courage and that told him enough, John was desperate to talk about it with someone, and was willing to look for comfort anywhere. Sherlock sat straighter and brought his hands once more, together in front of him. This was going to be a very important evening and he would be sure to not mess anything up.

John returned with a large bottle of whiskey and two small glasses, “If I’m going to forget tonight, you bet that you are too.” He teased when Sherlock looked at the second glass questioningly. 

They didn’t talk for the first few drinks, Sherlock mostly keeping his consumption to a third of John’s. Finally, John seemed to have grown enough courage to begin.

“He did it twice you know.”

Sherlock didn’t know that for certain. He was so distracted on the scene that he didn’t take the time to observe the crime. He had suspected it when he was observing John over the last few weeks. But confirmation made it all that much worse. A brew of sick revulsion, and burning hate formed at the pit of his stomach. He suppressed both emotions with the whiskey and poured himself another finger. 

“To be honest. I — I really didn’t think that it would be that bad. He…” John’s voice got thick and he coughed, still keeping his gaze on the dry fireplace. “He had me strapped down to one of those hospital beds, used bloody hand-cuffs!” John chuckled darkly, “It felt rather cliche, the whole event. Kidnapped, raped, bound, gagged, all run-of-the-mill you know.” John frowned and when he continued he sounded introspective and rather confused, “I think… I think that was the first time for him too. Not just… sex. But, any of it. I don’t think he knew what it would feel like.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, so that meant that the first time Moriarty would have experienced an orgasm was during John’s rape. That — was peculiar. He really wasn’t human then. Even Sherlock occasionally wanked when the need ‘arose’ and wouldn’t go down fast enough. 

John drank another glass and put the empty cup down. He pushed the heels of his palms into his eyes, looking quite exhausted and very obviously uncomfortable. “It fucking hurt so much. I’ve been in training for torture and for so many other combat-related injuries. I would fucking say it hurt more than the bullet!” 

Sherlock let out what he hoped was a reassuring hum. He sipped his whiskey slower now, hoping to keep his mouth occupied. John continued and Sherlock found his unspoken question answered.

“It wasn’t all physical I guess. There was just this feeling like… He took something from me and then put… himself… IN me. I felt like he stained me. Marked me.” He let out a wet huff, “It’s stupid but… I feel like he’s  _ in _ me and it makes me feel… Dirty.” 

“Those are often emotions experienced by rape victims John, it’s not unusual.” Sherlock said softly before he could catch himself. Luckily it didn’t seem to do much damage to John’s monologue. He continued, now removing his hands and staring at the rug. “I know. I helped rape victims. I just… I didn’t expect it to feel so contaminating. It’s like nothing fixes it. I wash, I do everything to get myself clean of him. It doesn’t work. I feel like he’s in my blood now. I feel infected. Nothing I do cleans it off! And that is really what hurts the most. I don’t know how to clean the stain.”

Sherlock was quiet, allowing John some time to regroup his thoughts, meanwhile he too was doing his best to regroup his own thoughts and offer a solution. “Have you tried… um… having therapeutic sex?” He offered tentatively.

“Is that even a thing?” John laughed sadly, finally looking up at Sherlock. 

“I’m actually not sure, but the point is; have you considered to have sex in order to move past your trauma?”

“Sherlock. You know it’s not recommended and people usually get PTSD from rapes right? So haing sex could like… trigger something.” John shook his head and sighed, “Besides… having sex wouldn’t help anything. I’d still feel contaminated. Moriarty fucked me. I didn’t fuck him. It’s… It’s different.”

“Well, functionally yes, but why would it matter on who is penetrating?” Sherlock abandoned his caution in favor of his curiosity. Sex was sex, if the result was an orgasm with someone else that is. 

John glanced up and then looked at Sherlock directly, he looked quite a bit baffled and surprised, “Are you telling me that you are unaware that he fucking… came in me?” 

“Well no. I was aware of that fact —” Sherlock winced. The thought of…  _ Moriarty _ doing anything so human was rather disgusting, but the thought of him depositing some of his own DNA into John suddenly made it obvious why John felt tainted. “Oh… I see.”

“I hope you don’t!” John teased, obviously trying to lighten the air. And for a brief moment, one ludicrous, absolutely mad moment, Sherlock had envisioned himself in John, depositing his own DNA into John and destroying all the evidence of Moriarty’s claim. 

For the first time, Sherlock was actually praying to any god that John would not see what had crossed his mind. The thought was so quick that it took no time at all, but the details that he saw were so vivid that he felt himself break into a sweat and suddenly choke on his own spit. 

John took this as a bad reaction to his joke and reached over to pat Sherlock’s back rather forcibly, “You ok Sherlock?” 

“Yes. Fine!” Sherlock huffed, his eyes watering from the sudden upset of alcohol in his system. John eyed him suspiciously, and if that was because of the bright red flush that colored Sherlock’s cheeks or from reasonable concern, Sherlock did not try and deduce. John then stretched and yawned, “Shit, it got late. Listen Sherlock, I got a shift tomorrow at eight… but this was really great. It was a good time — talking I mean.” He blushed with a bit of a drunk giggle at his wording. 

“Right, perhaps we should do this… more often?” Sherlock asked, glad to be let off the spotlight and curious to John’s reply. He was already nodding and picking up the shot glasses and the half-empty whiskey bottle. “Yeah, we should. I don’t know if it would be good for me to drink in every…” he frowned looking for a word. “Session?” 

“Fireside chats. It is more suitable, don’t you think?” Sherlock teased. John laughed and rinsed out the cups, “Right then, so we’ll do this again. G’night Sherlock. Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure, John.” The sincerity behind the words shook John out his daze and he looked at Sherlock with a gaze that was suddenly very sober. Sherlock swallowed nervously but did not avoid the gaze. John’s eyes widened a fraction, and his lips parted in visible, but cleverly disguised surprise. There was a charged silence as John dried his hands with one of the bright green kitchen towels and walked to Sherlock. 

“You — mean that.” John’s voice was low and inquisitive but his eyes were sharp, almost a reflection of Sherlock’s deductive gaze. To have the roles reversed put Sherlock in a bit of a panic, but that quickly turned to an excited twist as he realized what was happening. 

“Every word.” Sherlock was actually impressed that his voice came out so smooth. He sounded husky and deep, even to his own ears. But with John so close, he saw with no small amount of pride the effects it held over the man standing barely a foot away from him.

Pupils dilated dramatically, and his gaze dropped to Sherlock’s lips for a fraction of a second before returning to his eyes. They narrowed, and Sherlock read the suspicion there before it came out in words, “I’ll see you in the morning then, right?” John stood straighter, but did not break eye-contact.

“Have you ever known me to sleep, John? I will be here whenever you awake, be it in the morning… or earlier.” Sherlock had no idea why he said this, he just wanted John to realize, he would be there for him. He was never going to disappear. John was getting the message, but he seemed a bit overwhelmed. Granting him an escape, Sherlock rose and gave his friend a collected gaze, a soft “Goodnight John,” and then retreated to his room.


	11. Not-So-Secret Sentiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> YOU WILL LOVE THIS CHAPTER. PROMISE ;D
> 
> also I'm fucking impatient and want to start on my other fics XD THis was a trial run after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I do not have a beta for this work... this work is mostly me practicing and is NOT representative of my best writing.  
> I'm legit just too lazy to go back and edit each chapter. It is trashy... a bit... but that's what you expect for first time fanfics XD  
> hopefully this does help me so when I write other fics they turn out waaaay better. ummmm yeah dats it. ALL DE LOVE FOR YOU GUYS!!!!

The morning came rather quickly and without much time for reflection. John had dosed himself with three times the recommended amount of sleep medication and woke with a raw, throbbing headache. He sighed and stretched. Though he had joked about drinking away the memories of last night, he was nowhere near forgetting any moment. He remembered every moment with perfect clarity, but one moment stood out very prominently to him. 

Despite Sherlock thinking that he had a severe lack of any observational skills, the truth was he was very observant, just more with people’s emotions than their physical apparel. Last night, when he was talking to Sherlock, he noticed that his friend had maintained eye-contact throughout most of their talk. Sherlock’s body was angled towards John and his lips were shut but he was clearly paying attention to every word. 

Being the sole focus of Sherlock was not an easy task, but it was rather flattering. Even so, the attention which Sherlock gave John was… uncanny. There was a severe emotion pushing his friend to do something. That much was obvious. If it had been anyone else, John wouldn’t have hesitated to come to the obvious conclusion that they were feeling very protective over him, because of the rape. But it was Sherlock, he should have been more interested in Moriarty than in John. 

This little revelation all happened at six thirty in the morning while John dressed and groomed himself for work. So upon leaving the flat, John had a pretty solid plan for a small experiment, just to see where Sherlock stood on the event that flipped their life. If Sherlock would prove, in the following sessions of fireside-chats that he was more interested in Moriarty, and thus answers to those questions, it would reaffirm John’s secondary assumption that he was not much affected by the rape. Which, hurt in retrospect. But it was understandable. However, if he showed far more humane interests and seemed more concerned as to John’s healing, then John’s primary assumption would have been true. If that were to be the case, perhaps John would need to once more, re-evaluate their partnership and maybe… just maybe… there was a small chance that the small flame of undying love that John held for Sherlock… could be returned. With that delightful thought in his head he walked outside and hailed down a taxi to head to work.

The day went by in a dull wave of patients and mediocre complaints. Nothing exciting happened and the most notable event was the coffee machine running dry an hour earlier than usual. As such John was exhausted and quite bored, for once he could relate to Sherlock on the aspect of mind-dulling boredom. It was almost bad enough that he thought about putting out that application to the ER, until he remembered that not every boss was so lenient as Sara with his sudden disappearances. 

So cope he did. For the next eight, dull, bloody hours. When he found himself in front of 221B he breathed a sigh of pure fucking relief and wondered if Sherlock would make his day any better with some wild experiment.

He opened the door and was immediately assaulted with a plethora of different smells. So many and so strong that they dissolved into one another and made it impossible to tell what the bloody hell he was smelling!

“SHERLOCK?” The yell was half-hearted at best and sounded more curious than upset. John walked up the 17-step staircase and paused on the landing to the flat. A couple of loud crashes and some moments later the door opened and revealed a Sherlock in disarray. 

“Oh. You’re back early.” He said by a way of greeting. Sherlock’s hair was all frizzed up and he looked bright-eyed and a little out of breath, he also was wearing a face mask and goggles with his suit, which was never a good sign. 

“It’s past five Sherlock, I’m on time. What on earth have you been up to? Why does the flat smell like some sort of …” John stepped in while trying to figure out a word to describe the concofenny of scents he was experiencing. “A hippie den?”

Sherlock closed the door behind him and removed his mask and goggles, “well, I would call it more of a candle-shop based on the premise of materials responsible for the smells…” 

John turned to the kitchen and dining table and as he expected the bunsen burners were out and the number of measuring cylinders that were either burnt, dirty, or in use was well over ten. 

“And what, pray tell, was the purpose behind this experiment Sherlock?” John asked mildly, already thinking about all the mess he was going to have to clean before bed. 

“I— ” For a second there was no sound… then Sherlock coughed a little, something that sounded like embarrassment to John. 

“It was meant to be… um… for you. That is… if it were to work out…” Sherlock stumbled over his words which was so out-of-character for him that John couldn’t stop his eyebrows going up even if he tried.

“For me? I presume you mean the mess that I ought to clean?” His tease was light-hearted and he hoped it would put Sherlock back in the comfort of their usual banter. 

“Don’t be dull John, although… you might be right on that account now that I think on it… Regardless, I — ahem — made you a candle.” 

And with that he produced a small jar from the mess on the table and gave it to John. “I did some research on scents to relieve anxiety and stress, and a little bit on the science of scents while developing one to suit your needs… I hope it’s alright.” Then the bloody detective blushed, as if he were suddenly shy. As if he were waiting for John to pass his judgment. If what John did next was considered a bit too comfortable for flatmates then… perhaps he could blame the exhaustion that had been plaguing him all day.

Without a moment’s wait, John pulled Sherlock to him and hugged him tightly, whispering “thank you” into the detective’s chest. Sherlock had been frozen in place for a while, and then his arms came around and he embraced John back. His hands wrapping over John’s shoulders and his hands pushing through the silver-blonde hair at John’s nape. 

After a moment John parted from the embrace, his eyes suspiciously moist and a small stinging in the back of his throat. “Right. Don’t expect me to clean all this myself you madman.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock hummed back, looking a little too smug. John chuckled and went upstairs to deposit the candle by his bedside desk. He wanted to smell it, but something told him that after such a long day and so much smells around the flat, he wouldn’t be able to be a good judge of the scent. That was if he could even smell it!

As such he left to take a quick rinse and clear his body of any traces of the long day he had. Surprisingly, when he got out of the shower, closing the door behind him, the flat smelled thoroughly aired out and there wasn’t any lingering scent of the candle shop previously taking over the flat. He dressed in comfortable sweats and an old t-shirt from the army. Then he sat on the bed and took the candle from its place on the desk. It was rather small, just a plain jar that one would usually see a candle in, complete with the badly-removed label and lid. The wax was a deep blue color and appeared only recently cooled down. The wick was burnt a bit, suggesting a test-run. 

Shrugging his shoulders and mentally steeling himself (it wouldn’t be outrageous to say that Sherlock put some sort of drugs in the candle after all) he popped open the lid and took a deep inhale. 

If there was a way to capture pure nostalgia and happiness in a scent, then by god, Sherlock had done it. John could not identify one smell, and all the same, he received an overwhelming number of emotions. The smell seemed to jump right past his scent receptors and leap into his limbic system. He suddenly was remembering all the jumpers his mother wore and knitted for him, he remembered his pet dog and felt his own joy at being given a full scholarship to the medical school. 

It passed his deeper memories and tickled some deep happiness that had no clear source, all John could feel was just this insane, undiminishing love and peace. He wanted to jump into that smell and he wanted to bathe in it. It was more than addicting, it was impossible to be without the scent. Just as he thought he had drawn in all the scent from the candle and could not possibly take more, he was drawn in again. It was like inhaling the best feelings in the world, like taking true bliss, forming a mist from it, and dissolving it into his body. 

Only as he finished analyzing his emotions was John able to finally identify some of the smells. There was tea leaves, and some sort of spice that reminded him of the fall season, then there was this … comfort scent. Something resembling the scent from his mother or Mrs.Hudson. 

That old-lady-who-loves-you-like-your-mum smell. Then there was a deeper fragrance, an undercurrent of something familiar that he couldn’t put a finger on. Something he smelled often, but not always at the forefront of his day. There were more smells that John couldn’t hope to isolate but overall mixed into a delicious blend. It was extremely personal, and profound, John struggled for a second trying to understand how on earth Sherlock could know him so… intimately. 

A soft knock on his door woke him from his trance, “John?”

It was Sherlock’s voice from the other side of the door, “dinner is ready…” That made John really snap out of it. He closed the jar and stood walking to the door, “Right, and what did you do that requires such an elaborate apology?” His tone was light but he was quite suspicious, first a gift… now dinner?

Sherlock raised his eyebrow and chuckled, “Nothing you haven’t seen. Mrs. Hudson prepared dinner. Something about tonight being important or some sentimental nonsense.”

“I am having a hard time believing that you abhor sentiment, Sherlock.” John walked past the door frame with a grin that wasn’t all attributed to the light teasing he did. “ After all, that candle you gave me sure felt like sentiment to me…” John’s grin only grew as he heard Sherlock’s frustrated huff. Surprisingly, the table and kitchen were mostly cleared of Sherlock’s experiment and the place looked… decent… decent enough for a meal. And there was one on the table. A delicious roast chicken and potatoes, with a side of peas and carrots and bread rolls. 

“She didn’t have to!” John couldn’t stop the smile on his face however, and his complaint went unnoticed. “She really is too much.” He hummed thoughtfully as he and Sherlock sat themselves down. 

John spent dinner time observing Sherlock and the flat. A fire was lit, perhaps before dinner, and made a cozy glow fill the flat. The lights were off or low, and there was a definite romantic atmosphere being planted. Sherlock was mindlessly eating the peas and carrots one by one, while reading some small book in his other hand. 

John continuously snuck some small cuts of chicken onto Sherlock’s plate which the detective ate without noticing (note the irony). The whole affair was so delightful that John felt unreasonably sad when Sherlock put his book away and walked to the living room to pick up his violin. 

John cleared the dishes and prepared some tea for the two of them, listening to Sherlock warm up and begin his scales. Then as he brought the tea to the coffee table, Sherlock began to play a beautiful rendition of Bach’s Partita 2, Chaconne. It was a lovely piece and rather long, so John had finished his tea by the time that Sherlock lifted his bow up and gently lay the instrument in its case. 

“That was brilliant…” John felt a little hazy from the musical air left by the lingering notes. The living space felt like it was charged with some sort of muffled heat. Something, soft, warm, comfortable… and yet volatile. 

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock sat in his armchair and quite literally drowned the cool tea in one go. 

“I could make you a new cuppa you know, didn’t have to drink it cold —” John snorted, amused. 

“Pffft, dull, would take too long. Besides, tea is tea.” Sherlock waved his hand mindlessly and seemed quite keen on removing his suit coat, which he wore all day. 

“Hmm, whatever you say.” John smiled. He spent a few moments watching Sherlock divulge himself of the suit jacket, and suspiciously felt a thrill seep into his stomach. 

“John…” Sherlock’s voice was a tad bit amused and sharply woke John from his previous distraction. Glancing up from Sherlock’s legs (when did his gaze go there?!) he saw those grey-blue eyes turn dark for a moment.

“Sorry, yes?”

“I was wondering if you would be interested in talking… as we did yesterday?” His question was open-ended, and quite easy to refuse. If John had some sort of unrealistic need to refuse that was. As it were, he wanted to talk, badly… just not about the rape.

John wanted to just talk with Sherlock. About anything really, anything other than that horrid experience.

“I would… but could we talk about something else?” 

“Of course. What do you propose?” Sherlock didn’t even blink at the sudden interruption to their supposed schedule. Rather he bent forward a bit more, angling his body to John and leaning on his clasped hands, balanced on his knees. 

“What did you put in the candle? I could identify some of the smells, but not all of them.” John began with the topic that had sat on his mind since that afternoon. Sherlock blushed and looked quite interested in a stain on the floor near his left foot. 

“Why don’t you begin with listing the scents you  _ were _ able to identify?” He said quietly.

John smiled and began, “Spice, something fall-festive. Maybe pumpkin or something like that. Fabric cleaner of some sort, reminds me of my mum’s jumpers. Definitely some sort of tea leaves, and then there was something else that I wasn’t able to put my finger on exactly.”

Sherlock was looking at him, rather wide-eyed at that, and seemed flushed. “That was…” He cleared his voice which had gotten deep for some reason, “That was rather impressive… you practically hit nearly all of the major scents that I used.”

“Nearly?”

“Well, the one you couldn’t place…” Sherlock offered. John raised an eyebrow in silent amusement. It wasn’t often that Sherlock got so flustered, and maybe it had to do with this entire conversation orbiting around the fact that Sherlock made something so intimate for John, or perhaps there was another reason. Either way, he looked down again and mumbled something unintelligible.

“Sorry, what?” John asked with a smile aimed at the poor, blushing mess of a detective. 

“IsaidthatIusedcologne.” Sherlock breathed out rather rapidly.

“Who’s?” John asked, now curious and a tad bit embarrassed himself… the smell was really quite good and now that he knew it was… well… a pheromone substitute, there was a new sexual undertone that became more prominent in his mind.

“Mine.” Sherlock muttered, quite reluctantly too. 

“Oh.” John felt suddenly a bit warm. The silence was a bit deafening and he became quite aware of Sherlock’s deepening blush.

“Was that… a bit not good?” Sherlock asked with an embarrassed smile. It was endearing and made John’s heart throb. Suddenly all he could feel, was this insane desire to kiss the detective. To just kiss away that shy, embarrassed look, and replace it with one of wonder and — oh god he was getting up.

Sherlock looked a bit confused, but John had already stood and begun to move to the detective’s chair. It was too late to back away now… well… that was his excuse anyways.

John bent over Sherlock, his arms bracketing the detective by bracing on the arm rests of the chair. This leveled his face perfectly with Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s eyes were blown wide, his pupils were engorged beyond anything John had ever seen, his pulse so strong that it throbbed visibly in his throat.

“It was… very good.” John passed his tongue over his lips, suddenly at a loss for what to do now that he was presented with such an alluring sight. 

“John —” Sherlock’s hand came up and cupped John’s cheek, guiding him closer… closer… Their eyes never left each other’s faces. They were hardly a centimeter apart now, both questioning each other desperately… silently. 

Sherlock was the brave one in the end, he pushed forward and connected their lips for the first time, sending shockwaves of arousal and excitement down John’s spine. 

It didn’t take long for him to reciprocate. He pushed forward and moaned his affection through their connection. All he could feel was a dizzying increase in his blood pressure, a sudden seizing of his heart and clench of his lungs. It was as if he were hit by a train, god, this was SHERLOCK he was kissing. Those lips were Sherlock’s, this was SHERLOCK. The shock didn’t fade into the seconds and minutes that they kissed. And the excitement did not recede in the slightest. All John could feel was the ever-there tingle of awareness in the back of his mind, and the overwhelming emotion that was centered around  _ Sherlock _ . 

“Oh god —” John sighed as their lips slid apart, before they came back together, moving slowly and softly. Sherlock let out a groan and then he stood, pushing John to the side of the fireplace and deepening the kiss dramatically.

All John could feel was the warm, wet swipe of a tongue on his lips, he opened his mouth and moaned as the muscle slid in. “Hmmmnn…” He wasn’t even able to remember basic things like breathing, gasping for air when their lips parted for a few seconds. 

“John.” Sherlock pressed his forehead to John’s panting slightly from the extreme kissing and if the word was a statement or a question was unclear. He took a deep breath and then just moaned again, “Oh god John,” before pressing their lips together again urgently.  
  
  
 **Is this a cliffhanger... oh yes... yes it is  
** *insert evil smiley face here*

**Author's Note:**

> please leave feedback ... mostly because I still need to figure out how AO3 works!  
> <3


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